


Caradhras

by FebobeFic_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:48:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 16,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28715268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FebobeFic_Archivist/pseuds/FebobeFic_Archivist
Summary: As the Fellowship begins the ascent, Frodo falls gravely ill. . . . Slightly AU.
Kudos: 9





	1. Darkness Falls

**Author's Note:**

> Set as slightly AU during the approach and ascent of Caradhras, this story is written in alternating viewpoint, shifting between Aragorn and Frodo; it should be fairly easy to tell which is which.

"No, thank you."

The sound of Frodo's response causes me to turn. While Boromir and I work at setting up camp, with Legolas scouting the area and keeping his distance from Gimli, who is talking in urgent whispers to Gandalf, the hobbits are tending to our meal: wisely, Merry has relegated Pippin to the role of server, assisting Sam in the preparation himself. However, it is Frodo who concerns me most: as his younger cousin holds out the bundle, the Ringbearer shakes his head firmly, sniffling. He's had something of a cold ever since our first day struggling with the pass, and his small nose and ears stay reddened with the chill. More worrisome is the fact that he hasn't responded enthusiastically to our last several meals: not that it's any feast, but everyone eats with good appetite, given the hard work and careful rationing.

Everyone except him.

Coming to Frodo's side, I hold out my hands as I squat beside them, nodding for Pippin to give me the bundle while I seek Frodo's gaze. He meets my eyes at once, looking at me a bit anxiously; he's seen me watching, and knows, I suspect, that intervention is inevitable by now.

"Frodo, you must keep up your strength. I know it is nothing like home, but it will help you."

He shakes his head, though less emphatically this time. "I'm not hungry."

"I know. But eat as much as you can; it will do you good." I set the bundle in his lap, unfolding the cloth. Bread and cheese, dried apple and peach slices. He hesitates, sighs, and at last picks up a dried apple ring and begins nibbling it slowly. I can't help smiling. "That's better. Keep trying. I must finish setting everything for the night, and then I will return. . .all right?" He nods. Rising, I touch him once on the shoulder, avoiding any ruffling of his hair. I saw his expression when Boromir began doing so: he abhors it from any save perhaps Bilbo.

As I return to work, I glance back. Frodo continues to eat, albeit very slowly and in tiny amounts: the apple ring takes him a good five minutes or more to finish, and he pauses a few minutes before starting on the next bit of fruit. He sniffles, shivering a bit. I don't think he's felt warm since Weathertop, save for our time in Rivendell, and even there he was always warmly clad, especially compared to the rest of us. I fear the Morgul-blade has inflicted far more damage than we can see.

As evening draws on, we huddle together for warmth - well, the others do, at least: it is my turn to stand watch, and I find a spot some few feet away, keeping watch out of the sheltered nook we have found. A shallow place along the mountain's lower heights, where there are still clumps of coniferous trees about, though we dare not risk a fire: not that we haven't attempted one, but nothing will light in the night winds, and Gandalf cannot intervene without risking our discovery. Still, I am concerned for Frodo, and am glad to see Sam wrapping his master in extra blankets.

In an effort to keep their minds from the cold, the hobbits begin to talk of home, and of their customs, which amuses and interests all of us, even Boromir, who smiles as he listens. Gandalf listens quietly, with a knowing smile: he and I have perhaps seen more of their customs than most, he especially. . .and I am all the more glad that he is here, for Frodo loves him so. The rest of us are still strangers to him in so many ways, and I suspect that the presence of both the familiar wizard and his companions sustains him in ways that the rest of us cannot.

The talk quickly turns to ages, not least of which is Pippin's youth: Merry is pointing out that Pippin will not come of age for another four years, and they talk of parties. Apparently Merry's was rather a grand affair, with a huge supper (even for hobbits) and entertainment, and of course Sam's was a simple celebration with his family. . .but talk turns to Frodo's, which I know from night talks with him between Weathertop and Rivendell was very significant indeed. Lying awake in the darkness, in too much pain to sleep, he often spoke of missing Bilbo, and of how he would have gladly given up all to have his guardian back, though he understood Bilbo's need to depart.

"Well, I'm going to be lucky to HAVE a decent party, I'm sure!" Pippin's voice, clear above the rest. "Remember, I'm stuck with Mother, Nurse Margery, *and* three older sisters! Do you know what that's like?!?"

A soft laugh from Frodo, who has remained mostly quiet this evening, as if he were not feeling well. "I've seen enough of them to have an idea, Pip - remember, I've rescued you more than once!"

They all laugh, and Pippin pouts indignantly. "Not often ENOUGH, cousin! Anyhow, Great Smials is like Brandy Hall these days, isn't it, Merry? Goodness, but you were lucky, Frodo, being adopted by Bilbo and all. Can you imagine?" he adds, looking around at the others. "Being adopted by the wealthiest hobbit in the WHOLE Shire, practically, with the nicest hole. . .I'd say that's worth even dealing with the Sackville-Bagginses, Frodo!"

There is a round of uneasy laughter from the other hobbits, and Merry seems to be elbowing Pippin, not that the young one notices. Frodo murmurs something. . .it sounds very much like, "Perhaps". . .and Pippin reaches across Merry to push him a bit. It is a playful gesture, but Frodo winces. We are all sore from travel, but I have not seen him react like that: not since after Weathertop, when he was in pain and very ill.

"Oh, come now, Frodo! I mean, *I'd* certainly like to be an only child and live in such a hole, all to myself, with a wonderful place for parties and all. I don't know why you don't have more parties! I wish *I'd* been the one Bilbo adopted and left everything to; that would be grand. . . ."

"Everything, Pip?"

Frodo looks up, the moonlight casting eerie shadows across his pale features as he speaks. His voice is soft and slightly hoarse, but utterly without blame or anger, with no hint of accusation. . .and yet it is all the more chilling for that.

The meaning is lost on no one.

At once Pippin pales, opening his mouth as if to start babbling profuse apologies, but Merry pinches his arm sharply. "I think it's time for bed, Pip - " he comments crisply.

Frodo sits with his head bowed, resting it in his hands until Gandalf rises, coming to his side, and kneels beside him, murmuring something in a reassuring tone, though I cannot make out his words. At last he rises, rubbing the Ringbearer's back gently and nodding to Sam, who touches Frodo's shoulder gently.

"Come on now, Mr. Frodo. . .let's get your bed settled and get something for you to drink. . .all right?"

Frodo says nothing, though he accepts Sam's offer of a refilled water- bottle with evident enthusiasm, promptly drinking down a good bit of the cold liquid even though he shivers in his cloak and blankets. Before most of us are ready to set watch and sleep he is already lying down, huddled in the thick wraps - his cloak and blankets as well as an extra blanket tucked over him by Merry. Gandalf notices, watching with concern written in his features as well, though as Legolas sets to watch and the rest of us prepare for a few hours' rest, all seems well enough: the Ringbearer has fallen asleep, and rests quietly in his spot between Sam's bedroll and my own. Not wanting to concern the others unnecessarily, I say nothing, but attempt to remain awake, watching him as Legolas watches the entrance to our small sheltered nook.

********************************************************************* ******

So cold. . .freezing cold. . .

Aragorn is kneeling beside me, his hand on my forehead. It feels so comfortable. . .warm, the only warmth since we started for the Redhorn Pass. . . .

"A. . .Aragorn. . ."

"Sssshh. Don't try to talk any more than you must." I nod, and he brushes back my hair, stroking the mop reassuringly. "Lie still. . .how are you feeling?"

"Cold. . .everything aches, though I'm sure that's. . .half the Fellowship at least. . . ." I attempt a smile, but find myself breathless from the effort of talking. Beginning to cough, I struggle to sit up, and Aragorn lifts me carefully, keeping the blankets about me as he supports my shoulders in a sitting position. My chest hurts, a deep ache like a pounding within my lungs as I cough. My head swims, and Aragorn pulls me against him, bracing me against his own chest, rubbing my back lightly but firmly. When it passes, he brings a water-bottle up, pressing it lightly against my chapped lips.

"Drink. As much as you can. . .slow sips, now. . . ."

Gladly I obey; my throat and chest burn from coughing. Aragorn helps me finish drinking, then rests his hand against my forehead once more, and only then do I notice how anxious he looks.

"Frodo, you're running a fever. I'm afraid you may be ill. . .it's important we try to keep you warm so you don't grow worse. All right?" I manage a nod; speaking's still a bit much at the moment. "We're going to wrap you up a bit more, some extra blankets. . .it'll be a bit of moving you for a few minutes, but then you can lie still." Again I nod: the prospect of being warmer is encouraging, and I'm more than willing to tolerate the pain. Aragorn is gentle: he wraps a large blanket, then another, around me, and while I still feel chilled, I feel a bit more comfortable, protected from the snow by so many extra layers. Leaning back against the wall of the shallow cave that forms our shelter, Aragorn settles me against him so that I rest in his arms, cradled against his chest, head resting on his shoulder.

"Try and sleep again if you can."

His voice is reassuring, somehow, and I'm too tired for anything more. Closing my eyes, I settle against him and soon feel myself dozing off.


	2. Dry Vines

It is as I feared: Frodo is indeed very ill, and I silently curse repeatedly over how far we are from Rivendell. He needs a warm bed, thick pillows and warmed quilts, hot soup and heated medicines, warm poultices to ease his breathing. . .but the best I can offer here is the warmth of my own body, holding him wrapped in blankets against my chest.

As the light of dawn nears, Gandalf comes to join us, his worn face anxious in expression as he kneels beside us. "Legolas told me. How is he?"

I shake my head, glancing back at the tiny bundle of dark curls and pale features, the little face just visible from the nest of blankets I've wrapped him in. "He grows worse. Gandalf. . .we cannot continue. Not at present. He is too ill."

The wizard sighs, nodding. "No. . .no, we cannot. I will tell the others at first light." He glances about tensely. "I had not wanted to risk it, but. . .it seems we must have a fire. The longer we must stay here, the more we risk discovery, even without fire. Merry and Pippin can help Gimli gather some wood. Boromir can stand guard; Legolas will assist you. Sam will help get the fire going. And if there is anything I can do. . ."

"The fire will help. I can make a hot drink for him; I have herbs which may help ease the cough and fever, at least, and perhaps warm him a little."

Gandalf nods, lifting a wrinkled hand to Frodo's brow, gently brushing back the damp curls. "All right. I will return soon." With that, he rises and is gone, leaving me to return my attention to the tiny Ringbearer cradled in my arms.

I have trained long enough in the healing arts, under Elrond's guidance, that I have treated all sorts of patients and conditions, and though I know Frodo is no child, it is that part of my learning which I try to remember, for a small body needs different care than a large one, and medicines that would heal a man the size of Boromir or an elf the size of Legolas would kill a very small hobbit, even one a little taller than most, like Frodo. When he began to recover from his wound, it was children's dosing that we used to administer tonics and soothing mixtures, once he no longer needed the powerful concoctions required in treating a Morgul-knife's poison. I try to shut out of my mind the truth of the children I have treated with pneumonia: of adults and children alike, many do not survive, but I have seen more children die than live, and a part of me fears greatly that this trial will be too much. He survived a wound that would have killed many a strong warrior, and so I suspect he is stronger than one would think, stronger by far, but the experience has not been without lasting harm, and at best he has a long, miserable path ahead.

Reaching carefully into my pack, I begin sorting the herbs packed under Elrond's guidance. Ginger. Good. He likes ginger, that much I recall, and it will help the fever and chills as well as any sense of nausea. Now, for some mullein or something of the sort. . .there, elecampagne root. . .he won't like how thick the resulting tea is, I'm sure, but I don't like how difficult his cough is: tight and dry, despite the fact that I can hear thick rattling in his chest, the heavy sound of congestion. Dried licorice root. . .there, that's good. . . .

Frodo stirs in my arms, his eyelashes flickering as if he might wake. At once I abandon the pack and turn my attention back to him entirely, stroking back the curls and shushing softly. Slowly he opens his eyes, blinking in the hints of dawn sunshine.

"Aragorn? What. . .why aren't we. . .packing to go?"

I uncap the flask of water beside us, bringing it to his lips and pressing him to drink. "We cannot risk continuing until you are at least a little better, Frodo. We will rest here until you are well enough for us to continue."

His eyes widen, and at once he shakes his head frantically. "No. . .no, it's too dangerous, and there isn't time. . . ."

"We have no choice, Frodo." Insisting gently, I tuck the blankets a bit more closely around him. "The best thing for us to do now is wait. Try to rest and let us take care of you. I will see to you; if I have to leave you for even a few minutes, Gandalf or Legolas will take you, and we will have your friends close by your side. All right?" He nods weakly, and I try coaxing a little more water into him, hoping that plenty to drink will help control the fever, which seems to be rising further.

"How is the little one?"

Legolas drops to a crouch beside me, studying Frodo with concern, though he offers a reassuring smile to Frodo as the hobbit turns to see who speaks.

I discovered already in Rivendell that Frodo knows more than one would expect; speaking in Sindarin to avoid upsetting him is of limited value, since he reads expressions well and can make out snatches of conversation decently enough. . .so I answer in Westron, allowing Frodo to hear me without the trouble of trying to translate in his head. "He needs medicine. . .we are going to try risking a fire, but I wish I had brought dried ivy or honeysuckle from Rivendell; a tea from that might help his breathing. I have some things that will help, but that would do a great deal of good."

The elf nods. "Actually, Aragorn, you may find yourself in better spirits if you go and look at the nearest trees. . .you would not have seen last night; it was already darkening." He smiles wryly, putting out his arms. "Shall I take Frodo while you see them?"

Looking down at the bundle in my arms, I arch an eyebrow, awaiting his approval. . .and he responds with a weak nod, allowing me to ease him gently into the elf's arms. Legolas takes the hobbit as gently as he might lift a babe from its cradle, supporting Frodo's back and head with great care, settling into a sitting position himself. He begins to talk gently to the little Ringbearer, and I rise carefully, stretching out the cramps of so many hours spent in the same posture, before walking over to the nearest trees.

I would not have thought it. Never. Yet there it is: a dried vine, an old honeysuckle creeper trailing along one of the trees. Eagerly I strip the leaves and twigs, gathering them into the folds of my cloak. The others stand a little apart, Gandalf talking with them; the hobbits are beginning to look very anxious, and Gimli's expression is grim. I glance back at Legolas, who cradles Frodo, talking softly to him. . .and suddenly, still stripping dead twigs and dried leaves into the makeshift pouch, I envy the Firstborn's ability to comfort, the keen sense of presence that they have.

There is so little I can do for the Ringbearer.

So little that it frightens me.


	3. Homesick

I shudder at the moment of chill as Aragorn slid me from his arms to Legolas, welcoming the warmth as the elf pulls me close, his touch at once like Aragorn's and yet so different. . .the brush of his fingers along my forehead seems to infuse some sense of comfort, easing my aching head and limbs, calming the sense of freezing cold a bit. . . .

"There now, little one. . .Aragorn will prepare some medicine for you; we are going to start a fire so you can have something hot to drink."

"Thank you. . . ."

Legolas smiles, settling back as if at complete ease: he always seems quite natural no matter where we are, whether in Rivendell or Hollin, surrounded by other elves or surrounded by snow. It still amazes me, though by now I should be accustomed to it. He tips a water-bottle to my lips: despite the coldness, it tastes wonderful, and I sip several mouthfuls before allowing him to set it aside once more.

His tone is reassuring, and I feel a little better. . .though my chest still aches, and a fit of coughing seizes me. It hurts. . . . I feel grateful when he eases me up a bit; breathing is so difficult, and this position seems better. . . .

"There, there, Frodo. . .try and rest. . . ."

I nod, though the gesture seems a matter of great effort. Everything hurts. I recognise the feeling, unfortunately. . .when I was much younger, not long after my parents died, I fell very ill - with a chill at first, then a horrible cough and a high fever. One of my aunts came to check on me during the night since I had eaten little at supper and complained of a headache; she sent for the doctor, then gave me a warm bath and put me to bed with heated flannels for my chest. It was then Bilbo and I began to grow closer, actually, for he visited Brandy Hall less than days after I first became sick, and sat for hours on end telling me stories and coaxing me to take sips of broth or juice. Years later, when I was a tweenager living at Bag End, I came down with it again, and this time it was Bilbo who nursed me, pressing cold cloths to my aching forehead and changing my sheets, tucking hot water-bottles in against my chest and stomach to soothe the aches, holding me and rubbing my back through the painful coughing fits.

How I long to be back there, back in the comfort of my room at Bag End, with my fireplace and feather bed, fluffy pillows and the soft down counterpane Bilbo had had made just for me, with the warm smells of honey- cooked vegetables and chicken soup with mushrooms filling the air. More than anything, I wish I would awaken, finding this all a nightmare from beginning to end, and feel Bilbo's soft hand against my brow, hear him saying, "Sssshhh now, my boy. . .it's all right. . .only a bad dream; that's all!" He would reassure me until I felt safe, then offer something to ease the chills: warmed milk with honey and nutmeg, or ginger-cinnamon tea. He would tell me stories until I fell asleep, then sit beside me, watching over me and changing the cool compresses, giving me sips of warm tea or apple juice when I would wake, talking softly and telling me stories if I could not sleep. . . .

"Frodo?"

The voice of Legolas pulls me from reverie, and I blink for a few minutes, trying to steady myself in the present, which is all too real: it is snowy and freezing cold, and the smell in the air is one of. . .I dare not say it lest someone think me out of my head with fever, though I think I am not: death. The air smells of death and fear.

"Yes?" I manage in a whisper.

The elven prince tucks a blanket more securely around me, his hands gentle as he slips one into the blankets to rub my back, for which I am very grateful: it makes me feel warmer and more comfortable, less exhausted and achy and ill. "How are you feeling, little one? Try and sleep or stay with us. . .you need rest, but we must be sure the fever does not hinder your thinking ."

"I. . .I don't. . .feel at all well. . . . Achy, and. . .cold and. . .hot. . .all at once. . . ."

He nods pityingly - I cannot say sympathetically, for I know that he does not understand; elves do not fall ill. "

I know what is wrong with me. Pneumonia.

If I weren't frightened already, that alone would be enough. . .but here. . . . Even Rivendell sounds so delightful right now, even though what I really want is *home*. . .hobbit-size furnishings and hobbit food and drink, hobbit medicine and hobbit care. . . . Everyone is so kind, but. . .it is not the same, not the same at all. . . . It's comforting being held by the Big People, but it would feel more comfortable to be home in my own warm bed, with my familiar things. . .the quilts my mother and aunt made me. . .pillows plumped and fluffed just so. . .simple hobbit-medicines, not so different from what it sounds as if Aragorn's making, but some put into syrups made with honey and candied pastilles for the throat to help coughs and colds. . . .

I cannot remember feeling so terribly sick since I left home. Not even after Weathertop, for even then, although the Morgul-wound made me more ill than I have ever been in my entire life, I maintained some hint of hope that if we could only reach Rivendell, I would get better, and I could be safe and comfortable for a time, then go home. . . . But now I know that my fears of last spring and summer were true. It is a good thing that I said my good-byes, for I know that I will most likely never see the Shire again. Even if I survive this, the road ahead is so very long. I have not Sam's optimism that we should be seeing the end soon: it is a long and difficult journey to Mordor, and Mount Doom is well inside its borders. The thought alone makes me feel so unbearably homesick.

I want to go home. I wish this had never happened, that I could still be home and Bilbo there with me.

What if I had hidden the Ring and told Gandalf I'd lost it?

What if I had refused?

It is futile to think of such things now, and I know better than to imagine it could be any other way. All the same, I wish it were over.

I wish I could go home.

I miss Bag End.


	4. Bitter Medicine

After a thorough examination of our supplies and a talk with Gandalf, I have at least settled on a course of treatment. Were we in Rivendell or even Bree, I would put Frodo to bed at once and give him something hot to drink every two hours: something soothing made with eggs or warm milk or broth. However, we are far from anywhere, though my dismay at the situation is admittedly somewhat abated by the discovery of some unexpected additions to our baggage, courtesy of Samwise Gamgee. Sam has agreed to manage the cooking, with some aid from Merry: Frodo must have something warm and nourishing every two hours, and we will alternate a thin mushroom soup with heated milk prepared from the powder in our supplies, occasionally giving some warm applesauce as well. I knew of the dried mushrooms and powdered milk, but how Sam packed canned applesauce without the jar shattering is beyond my understanding. It matters little, for I am exceedingly glad of it. The herbal infusions I will administer between doses of nourishment; we cannot risk the omission of either.

Returning to the place where Legolas sits, singing softly to Frodo, I kneel. The little hobbit sleeps, his face flushed red across the cheekbones. At first it might appear to be an effect of the cold air, but a single touch confirms that he remains feverish, his temperature frighteningly high despite the chills causing his tiny body to shiver uncontrollably.

"How has he been?"

Legolas shakes his head, his face grim. "I know little of the Secondborn and their sicknesses, Aragorn. But he seems very weak, though he did drink a good deal of water, which seemed to help a little. Nonetheless, I fear for him. That cough bodes ill: I do hope your medicine works."

Carefully I put out my arms to take him once more. He begins to grow restless, the chills easing only to give way to the uneasy fretfulness caused by feeling too hot: I remember it well from having had fever once, long ago, when quite young, though it was swiftly cured in Rivendell. Taking him in my arms, I test, sliding my hand inside the blankets, beneath his shirt, to feel his back.

Burning hot.

Legolas catches my look, pausing in the process of rising. "Is there anything we can do? Anything I can guide the younger ones in to occupy their minds and hands so that they may feel helpful?"

I ponder a moment. . .yes, that will work. "Please. Get them to gather all the icicles they can find; they must take Boromir or you along, and one of Sam's pans. They should return here as quickly as possible and break the icicles into small pieces, the right size for holding in the mouth."

He nods, and is gone as silently as he came. Anxiously I study Frodo, debating. The fever must not be allowed to go too high, and yet I fear further chilling him here. It would be easy enough to pack him in snow, but with no easy means of rewarming him should the need arise, I feel reluctant to risk doing so. Suddenly an idea comes to mind, though, and as Sam ventures over with a cup, I motion for him to sit beside me.

"Here's the tea for Mr. Frodo, sir. . .I made it just like you said, twenty minutes of sitting, though it still smells a mite bitter."

"That's all right. We'll use the licorice next time; it's sweet and won't be so unpleasant for him." Taking the cup, I settle Frodo a bit more securely in the crook of one arm. "Sam, I need you to get something from my pack: take a little athelas, a few leaves only, and some of the soft cloths with them. Bring them here, and fetch some boiling water."

He nods dutifully. "All right, sir - only - " Gesturing helplessly to Frodo, he chews his lip. "You - sir, you will get him to drink the medicine down, won't you? Sometimes it takes some doing when he's real sick; when he doesn't feel good he doesn't want to eat or drink anything, usually, except somethin' to keep him from bein' so thirsty, so he may not take it all first try. . . ."

I cannot help smiling. . .but I nod as reassuringly as I can. "I'll do what I can, Sam, and if I have any trouble, I'll seek your assistance."

The young hobbit fairly beams at this, save for the sadness lingering in his eyes, and trudges over to my pack, beginning to work. Holding the cup carefully, I attempt to coax Frodo into sipping a little of the contents: honeysuckle and ginger, to ease his cough and chills and bring down the fever. "Frodo," I offer, tipping the cup to his lips, "take a few sips. . .come, now. . .it's nice and warm, and it will help make you feel better. . . ."

Slowly the blue eyes open - he blinks at me for a moment, but then begins to sip obediently, though he makes a slight face.

"It's so. . .strong. . . ."

"Yes, I'm afraid so. Strong to help you get better. The next one will taste much better; I promise. It's licorice. . .and in a while I want you to take a little soup for me. . .mushroom. . .and later some warm applesauce. . .doesn't that sound good?"

He blinks, looking a bit confused. "Applesauce?"

I can't help laughing as I nod, despite the gravity of our situation. "Yes - it seems your friend Samwise has more ingenuity than the rest of us. There is applesauce, and milk. . .I know the powdered tastes quite different from fresh, but you must drink it if you can; I doubt I need to tell you how ill you are, and how important it is that you take some nourishment."

Weakly he nods, then continues to drink the tea. After a few moments, though, he pauses, shuddering. "I don't know if I can. . .it's awfully strong. . . ."

"It's very important, Frodo. Just a few sips more, at least. . .try, please."

He sighs, beginning to cough again: a thick, dark sound, tight and disconcerting. But once the fit passes, he yields, sipping slowly once more. By the time Sam returns with the requested items, he has finished the cupful and seems to be growing drowsy once more.

"All right, Sam. . .set the cloths in the athelas-water to soak. . .wring one out thoroughly and hand it to me." He obeys, while I begin attempting to create enough of an opening to apply the cloth without chilling Frodo. The ice would have to do to bring down the fever, and perhaps this might ease his troubled breathing a little. He is, though, wearing a small coat of mail beneath his shirt, and as much as I hate to move the poor hobbit, I cannot see any way but to take it off for now, for I must have easy access to his chest, both to apply medicines and to try warmth for soothing his cough. Still, metal though it is, that is an extra layer: exquisite mithril, enough to take one's breath. "Actually, Sam - leave the cloths soaking a moment, and fetch Frodo's pack if you would. I believe he has an extra shirt I'd like to put over this, to try and keep him from getting chilled while we work."

Again the little gardener obeys, giving me time to ease a drowsy Frodo out of his mail, removing his tunic and shirt long enough to do so, then quickly sliding them back on. Even the effort of being undressed by another seems to tax his strength, and he moans softly with pain, looking relieved when I allow him to lie back in my arms, holding him carefully against my shoulder. Quickly Sam returns, and I slide the shirt on over the rest, rewrapping him in blankets and arranging just an opening to reach his chest. Kneeling, Sam begins wringing out the compress.

"Begging your pardon, sir, but I've a bit of news you might want - "

Pressing the athelas compress to Frodo's chest, the pungent scent of herb filling our little shelter, I look over at him curiously.

"I did a bit of checking, and it seems that applesauce weren't the only bit of canning that did last the trip up; I knew I'd packed more, but I didn't know how it'd travel." He grins sheepishly. "There's blackberries. . .and some peaches, too, right pretty ones. And I think some pears as well. I'd plumb forgotten about those till today, but I'm mighty glad I packed 'em now. Do you think those might help?"

"Yes. . .thank you, Sam, I think they may indeed." I cannot help but feel relieved: there is nothing so good for a cough as honey, and I know from Rivendell that Frodo will take fruit when he will eat little else: after Weathertop, one of the first things he began eating again was the bit of fruit put on his tray, which we rapidly increased upon realising that it was this he was most willing to get down. And we can use some of the honey to sweeten tea for him: the bitterness may be an obstacle if I have to give further doses of some remedies, and this will help. "Thank you. . .it shows. . .ingenuity."

Sam reddens, smiling a bit. "'Tweren't nothin', Strider, sir. It's only that I know what Mr. Frodo likes and don't, and they - the elves, I mean - were willing to set me up a bit with things. . . . I'd a-thought that glass would have frozen through and busted by now, but they said it was specially strong, and I suppose this does prove that, don't it?"

Nodding, I remove the rapidly cooling compress, returning it to him and holding out my hand for another, watching tensely for Frodo's breathing to ease. He does not seem to be sleeping, but lies with his eyes closed, and that concerns me: I fear that the fever is what keeps him from resting well, and that is a bad sign. Suddenly he murmurs faintly, and I lean closer to hear.

"No. . .no, I want Bilbo. . .please. . .he'd come. . .if he knew. . . ."

It is the delirium which worries me most. . .and I try to comfort him as best I can, cradling and shushing him gently.

"Ssssshhh, little one. It's all right. I know. But you must rest now. . . ."

A weak nod. . .and he goes quiet. I sigh, knowing that he misses Bilbo, and home. I would give him that if I could.

The best I have to offer, however, is a warm compress and a few sips of medicine that I can only hope will help.


	5. The Dark Beneath The Star

"He's going to die, isn't he?"

Looking up, I find Pippin standing in front of me, clutching a pan containing several icicles, each snapped into smaller pieces. It has been a very long day: Sam spent some time assisting me with Frodo's compresses, then went to prepare a bit of soup for his master. He has remained at Frodo's side much of the day, and Merry has brought Pippin by very briefly in between their icicle-gathering errands. We are all worried: Frodo has taken little, though he reluctantly drinks down the medicinal teas I prepare with Sam's help, he had to be coaxed through even a few spoonfuls of mushroom soup and of warm milk. The cough has grown progressively worse: his breathing rattles in his chest, and his cough sounds like a death-knell, though the administration of a spoonful of honey from the jars of fruit, given every hour or two, seems to have soothed his throat enough for him to rest a little. Nonetheless, he looks worse. . .I have managed to at least ease his breathing slightly, thanks to the athelas, but have accomplished little else: he remains feverish, his heart beating far too quickly, the pulse almost like the flutter of birds' wings beneath my fingers. The requested ice is indeed a welcome sight, for this seems to be the only thing that eases Frodo's fever and thirst at all, and at once I motion the youngest hobbit to sit facing me.

"I do not know, Pippin. I hope not, and we are all doing our best. But it is possible."

He sniffles, watching Frodo anxiously while taking a seat, and I notice that he is wearing his pack. "I brought the ice. . .Merry and I found a nice little branch with lots of icicles; it was in the shade enough they hadn't melted at all. Boromir took us searching again this time."

"Thank you. That will help." Taking a bit of ice between my fingers, I hold it to Frodo's chapped lips, moistening them carefully in an effort to get him to take the ice chip into his mouth. After a moment, he does, though his eyes remain closed. "There. . .just hold that beneath your tongue, Frodo, or let it run down your throat. . .as we did before. . .all right?"

A weak nod: he complies, holding it in his mouth without choking.

Pippin shifts uneasily, his bright eyes tense with fright. "I wish Margery were here. *She'd* know just what to do."

"Margery?" This is a name I've heard mentioned by the hobbits before, but not often, and not in any context I can identify.

He nods, curls bobbing. "My. . .nurse. Mine and 'Vinca's really - I mean Pervinca, my youngest elder sister; she's not much older than I am. Mamma had a nurse specially hired before we were born, after Pearl and Pimpernel. Of course we're both far too old for that now, really, but you don't just turn out someone who's almost family. And she's still terribly nice to have around. She knows what to do about anything. . .she took care of me when I had measles. . .and mumps. . .and some really horrid colds at times. . .and the same with 'Vinca. . . . She makes the best gingerhobbits of anyone in the world. And jam thumbprints, too."

Continuing to feed Frodo bits of ice, I listen, nodding. Sometimes I forget how young he is, how young they all are. . .but he especially is different for it, still a boy in their world. I cannot help thinking that Elrond was right: he should have been sent back to the Shire, with warnings, back to Nurse Margery and his parents and sisters. To safety. But our irrevocable decisions were made nearly a fortnight ago, when we set out, and though Elrond gave all leave to turn aside at need, we all know the truth: for the hobbits especially, there is no turning back. Not now.

"It isn't that I don't think you know what to do," Pippin adds quickly, perhaps mistaking my look for one of annoyance. "It's only. . .well, Margery thinks of everything, and can make something out of anything you give her, and. . .she's awfully good at making people feel better." Blushing a little, he slips his pack off, pulling it into his lap and eyeing me nervously. "Strider. . .will you promise not to tell the others? Or laugh at me?"

I have no idea what he might be referring to, or planning, but there is an urgency in his clear voice, and I nod. "You have my word, Pippin."

Slowly he opens the pack, pulling out something red. . .a hot water-bottle, of all things, sealed and apparently full, which he holds out to me, glancing about furtively as if trying to make certain no one else is in earshot.

"Margery knew I was going to visit Frodo, and walk to Crickhollow with him, but of course she didn't know I was. . .really leaving. She put this in even though she knows I don't like fussing with it, and I've just sort of kept it in my pack. I forgot about it on the way to Rivendell; I had it shoved down under everything else and didn't ever see it in there. Tonight while I was looking for an extra scarf, I found it. I asked Sam to fill it and not tell anyone - for Frodo - "

He looks up at me anxiously, holding out the offering with both tiny hands. . .and I cannot help but smile, taking the item in one hand. It is indeed quite warm, comfortably hot, so I fold back the blankets just long enough to lay it gently over Frodo's small stomach. Despite his fever, the chills still concern me, and I am very grateful for anything that helps keep him from becoming too cold.

"Thank you, Pippin. . .that's very thoughtful of you. I promise I won't say a word."

"Good." Looking partly relieved, the little hobbit settles back, watching his cousin quietly. At last he looks up at me, his expression nothing short of mournful.

"Strider?"

"Yes?"

"I. . .I didn't mean to hurt Frodo's feelings. The other night, when we were talking. . .I didn't mean to upset him." Pippin looks close to tears, blinking.

"I know you didn't. And I'm sure Frodo knows. In other days, the meaning would have been lighter."

He nods. For a few minutes, he is silent again, but at last he looks up at me. "May I talk to him?"

I glance down, sliding a hand into the covers, feeling Frodo's back to check his temperature (with the wind, I cannot trust to his brow). Still burning hot. From his rapid breathing and restlessness, I know he is not asleep, though he seems to drift between sleep and waking. Hoping the voice of someone close to him may offer some aid in getting him to sleep, I nod. "Of course."

He looks up at the night sky, where only a few stars sparkle through the cloudy darkness, and scoots a little closer, leaning forward and lowering his voice, his tone strangely soft and soothing, though still with its characteristic clarity and exuberance. I feel almost like an eavesdropper as I listen.

"Frodo. . .I do wish you could have had supper with us, and sat up to watch the sky. . .not that there's much to see, anyhow. . .but. . .remember when Bilbo took us out into the garden, your thirty-first birthday? I was awfully little then, but you both let me stay anyhow, and Merry minded me so I didn't have to have my sisters or Mamma or Margery, and you let me lick the bowl while you helped Bilbo by making the apple spice cake."

The image is one too delightful and amusing for me to avoid a smile, though I manage to contain it. Frodo seems to stir a little. . .and his breathing eases a tiny bit, as if the comfort of old memories were some medicine in its own right.

"And it was late by then, after supper, and I was sleepy, but I wanted so much to stay up. . . . And Bilbo told us that story, remember? About the goblins in the mountains - " (I cringe at this: Pippin, did you really have to mention that while we are ascending the Redhorn Pass?) "and how dangerous and dark and scary it was in the caves. . . . But then he escaped, and caught up with the dwarves, and he said what was the most remarkable was that it wasn't the sunlight he missed quite so much as the stars: the light of the Moon and everything in the night sky. . . ."

Pippin smiles at the memory, his voice growing more lyrical as he chatters.

"And he pointed out how high they were. . .and how the sky was all darker and plain lower down. . . . He said that the dark beneath the stars is there so we can really see how bright and beautiful they all are. Without that, we wouldn't know what we were missing, most of us. . .we'd go our whole lives and never even realise. . . ."

Looking up at the sky, I ponder this bit of wisdom for a moment. Indeed, the pattern is just so: a dark band of inky night below the sprinkling of little gold and silver lights.

The dark beneath the stars.

I shift position slightly, settling Frodo a bit more comfortably and pulling an extra blanket over him.

No. . .indeed we would not appreciate the stars without the darkest hues of night. And all the more beautiful do they shine above the glimmering snow.


	6. Cold Comfort

Why is it so hot?

I struggle to open my eyes. . .so exhausted. . .even that much is an effort. What have I been doing to make myself so tired?

Yet the scene that greets me is not my room at Bag End: there is white. Solid white. Snow dotted with the outline of trees and a few rocks. Snow- covered landscape.

And I remember.

"Little one?"

Someone is holding me. . .I feel arms shift a little behind my back, cradling me close. At once I recognise the lithe movements of slender limbs, the musical voice. . .Legolas bends over me, silky hair pushed back behind his ears as he bends over me, his touch warm and reassuring. Vaguely I recall being moved to his arms. . .but back since. . .Aragorn holding medicine to my lips. . .and ice. . .Sam's hands at my forehead. . .Pippin's voice. . .Aragorn pressing a spoonful of something to my mouth, urging me to swallow. . . .

"Wh. . .what's happening? Are the others all right?"

Legolas nods, still keeping me cradled against his warmth. "Yes, all are fine. Worried about you, but they are all right beyond that." He lays a hand over my brow, and the touch feels. . .calming. Very reassuring somehow. Steadying. "Little one. . .we are all very concerned that you are not eating. Aragorn is warming some milk for you. . .will you try and take a little of that for us? It is sweetened with honey. . . ."

Even the thought of swallowing something makes me feel ill. But he is right. I remember as a tweenager being urged by Bilbo and the doctor to drink the cupfuls of warm milk or hot tea or chilled juice that were brought to me and held to my lips. . .they said that the liquid would help me feel better. . .and that I needed those good things that water didn't have. . .and as soon as I could swallow more than broth and medicines they pressed me to eat, liquids at first, then soft foods especially prepared by Bilbo. . .mashed pumpkin and squash, carefully cooked mashed potatoes, carrot puff, milk toast, applesauce, porridge, coddled eggs, bread pudding. . . .

How I wish I were home.

*********************************************************************

Honey. Truly, I still have no idea how the jars survived the journey, but I have never been so grateful. Shaking my head, I stir a spoonful into the warm mixture of reconstituted milk, hoping it will go down more easily this time.

Looking toward Frodo, whom I gave to Legolas to tend while I prepare the next dose of nourishment while the others sleep (Sam only at my absolute insistence), I find my fears growing darker. He is flushed nearly scarlet at the cheekbones, and his lips are chapped and cracking. He will take the broken bits of ice, but barely, and I fear we have reached the point where I must insist: he continues to take very little nourishment, and that only with considerable coaxing from Sam, Merry, Gandalf, and myself. I find this exceedingly discouraging: though I do not want to worry the hobbits further by mentioning the fact, while Frodo took little between Weathertop and Rivendell, I found that far less worrisome. Sickness caused by a Morgul-knife is not the sort that responds to care, save insofar as it may sustain the person long enough for them to reach such aid as Elrond. If Frodo were to survive, it would be thanks to the hands of Elrond, whether he could eat and drink or no; these things served mainly to help keep him warm. If he survived, there would be opportunity enough in Rivendell to nurse him back to health, to tempt his appetite with interesting dishes and strengthen him with wholesome food and drink. Indeed, I was right: though his progression from spoonfuls of broth (given while he was still drifting in and out of slumber) to rich, nourishing liquids as he woke to solid foods as he began showing interest in something more substantial was slow, it was quite steady, for the most part.

This, however, is another matter entirely.

I cannot help but worry. Pneumonia is something we cannot simply cure: the best treatment is purely good nursing. . .keeping the patient warm and quiet; ensuring he stays in bed, resting; giving spoonfuls of warm liquid nourishment to keep the body working properly, to give it a chance to heal itself. . . . I can do so little for Frodo here that it infuriates me at times. Thinking back, I try to reassure myself with thoughts of the many dishes I coaxed into the little mouth. . .hobbit though he is, he has not Bilbo's appetite, nor the others', and, like many people, his interest in food was slow to return following such severe illness. Stubborn, both of us, but every opportunity I had, I prodded him to eat, and now I am glad, musing over all those faraway moments.

That mug of potato soup, smooth and thick with milk and butter.

A sandwich made with thick honey-wheat bread, filled with mushrooms and sliced chicken and tomatoes. We'd finally gotten up into the pine-woods Frodo wanted to explore, and had taken a picnic-lunch. The hobbits seemed to feel quite at home. Even Frodo ate without too much pressing, though he was so tired that on the way back I carried him.

Warm pancakes with butter and hot maple syrup, breakfast on an early winter morning.

Rich, healthy soups: the cooks had made those with an eye to enticing his interests while building him back into the more confident and more rounded little hobbit I'd met in Bree what seemed like ages ago. Chicken soup with tiny bits of chopped carrots and celery. Smoothly stirred cream of chicken and mushroom soup. A tomato-laden beef broth-based soup of chunkier vegetables: mushrooms and barley, sliced carrots and potatoes, chopped celery and stewed tomatoes. These were among his favourites, and on the days when he wasn't feeling well, mostly in the week immediately following the Council, I'd often taken a tray of that to his room, enticing him to take at least that. And he would: these dishes seemed to comfort him when he otherwise refused much-needed meals.

I try to reassure myself that he will recover, that he will grow strong again. When I last spoke with Elrond before leaving Rivendell, he reminded me that Frodo had grown stronger and wiser in those two months, that the health and strength returning to him would compensate for the residual effects of the Morgul-wound, that the little hobbit is far stronger than meets the eye.

Precious little reassurance it is, all the same.

*********************************************************************

I try shaking my head, but the refusal does not settle well with Legolas, who gives me one of those looks only elves can give: firm and stern and filled with. . .I'm not sure what to call it exactly. . .something regal and imperious, a certain degree of insistence. Yet his eyes betray him: he looks at me sorrowfully despite it all, and the hand which rises to stroke my bangs back from my face is exceedingly gentle.

"I am sorry we must be so firm about it, little one. If we were in the house of Elrond. . .or my father's halls. . .it would be different."

Legolas has rarely spoken of his home, so the mention piques my interest: I remember Bilbo's tales of Mirkwood and the Wood-Elves, but he had been with the dwarves, and admittedly, bad blood between elves and dwarves aside, the thirteen were really not the most enchanting of guests at times. "What's. . .it like? I. . .heard Bilbo. . .but. . .it was. . .long ago. . .and. . .you know. . .how. . .things go. . .with. . . that. . . ."

He laughs softly, the sound like bells upon the wind.

"It is very beautiful, Frodo. Despite the Shadow that dims the glory of the Greenwood, my father's court is still a lovely place. . . ."

He continues speaking, but somehow I have difficulty concentrating. My head swims, and I feel as if I am listening through thick layers of cotton- wool. . .and from a great distance. . .I have difficulty making sense of the words, though I don't know why.

Through the haze of dark fog I hear Legolas calling sharply for Aragorn. . .but I cannot speak. . .too exhausting, and it makes me cough. . . .


	7. Burning Up

Jerking my head up, I scarcely manage to avoid spilling the contents of the cup. The expression on the elven prince's face is like nothing I have yet seen: he is extremely concerned, and glances up to me for only half a second before returning his attention to Frodo, whom he cradles more tightly, speaking softly to him in Sindarin. I rise, hurrying back to them. . .and find my worst fears confirmed. Frodo's eyes are closed, and while he seems conscious, he clearly has no idea where he is or what is happening, and he struggles weakly in the elf's arms, whimpering.

"Aragorn, we're losing him. We must do something more; he cannot continue as things are."

Frodo murmurs deliriously, words I could not make out. Sighing, I nod, biting my lip.

"I was willing to try the compresses because we were out of the wind. Anything more risks chilling him, which would do more harm than good. The least exposure to the cold is likely to cause shivering, and that will only drive the fever up."

Legolas sighs. "If we could at least calm him, perhaps get him to drink a bit more. . . ."

*********************************************************************

I don't understand.

I find myself walking through Bag End, looking for something, though I cannot tell what. Something very precious to me. . .something I wore on a chain about my neck. . .what was it? But it is too hot, and I feel dizzy. . .I must sit down for a little while. . . .

Looking around, I recognise my rooms, and yet it does not seem the same: something is wrong, terribly wrong. But what?

No. . .no, wait, I. . .I'm lying in bed. . .what? Have I been ill? It would make sense; I feel so weak. . .exhausted. . .everything aches, and my chest hurts. . . . But why is no one with me? Was I taken ill during the night? Perhaps Sam will come. . .he'll knock. . .perhaps he'll come soon and help me. . .change the sheets, send for a healer, get something cool for me to drink. . .perhaps soon. . . .

The room is filled with dark shadows, though. . .and suddenly they begin to *move*. . .they press in, closing around my bed like curtains of living midnight. . .I can't breathe. . . .

***********************************************************************

As Legolas continues speaking urgently to Frodo in Sindarin, trying to reach him, to comfort him, I debate the best course of action. Submerging him in snow would lower his temperature, but I fear to risk it when it may be difficult to rewarm him if need arises. And such a small person would be in grave danger if he began losing heat so quickly. . .it can be difficult to rewarm such a little one sufficiently, I know, and Frodo has been easily chilled ever since Weathertop. Yet if we do not bring down the fever. . .

I sense someone behind me.

"Gentlemen, if I might offer a possibility - "

It is Gandalf, his expression grave with concern as he seats himself carefully beside Legolas, looking as if he's aged a good ten years or more in the last day and a half since Frodo fell ill. I have seen him talking with the others all day: there are many questions, and decisions to be made. At once, though, he puts out his arms for the bundle nestled against Legolas. Hesitantly I nod: I have long since learned not to question him when it comes to the four smallest members of the Fellowship, though I do not know what he can do for the little one that we have not already tried. Yet there is a tenderness in his expression that belies any questioning of whatever he might have in mind, and I gesture for Legolas to give Frodo to the wizard. Retrieving the abandoned cup, I am glad to find that the milk and honey mixture is not yet cold, and I wrap the cup carefully in a scarf to try and keep it warm until we can coax Frodo to drink a little of it.

Soon, I hope.

*********************************************************************

"Frodo. . .stay with us."

Gandalf's voice. Dear Gandalf. . . .

The shadows withdraw, and I remember. . .I am not at home. . .we have been travelling from Rivendell. . .I cannot recall how long now. . .many days, though not so long that I cannot remember. . . . Yes, we're approaching that huge mountain. . . .

Suddenly I feel myself being moved, taken into other arms. . .and I sob with relief as I recognise the familiar warmth of a long beard. It must be Gandalf; the scent is so familiar. . .pipeweed and the peppery smell of fireworks and the faintest hint of elven spices. . . . I try to untangle one hand from the covers, and a larger one takes it. . .a familiar touch. . .thank goodness. . . .

"Gandalf. . ."

"Yes, my boy, I'm here." The voice is so warm and reassuring: I *want* to stay, *want* to hold on despite the despair which seizes me at the realization of how terribly far I am from home. Somehow a part of me feels it will be all right. . .surely it will turn out all right.

"I'm thirsty. . .please. . . ."

A cup is pressed gently against my lips, and I take a tentative sip: not water, something different in taste. . .yes, warm milk, or as near as we can make to it from the powdered milk in the supplies. And honey. . .very sweet, tasting slightly of apples. At first I hesitate: the coughing is enough to make me feel sick at times, and the thought of anything more than crushed ice is too much..

"Just a bit, Frodo. . .you wouldn't want me to have to tell Bilbo that a Baggins was refusing all food, now, do you?"

Gandalf's tone is so merry I cannot help myself - smiling, I take another sip, allowing him to administer small mouthfuls for a bit. At last he takes the cup away and strokes my hair, keeping me close against his chest. . . . Despite it all, I feel somehow safe. . .Gandalf is here, and even though I feel sure there are horrors ahead I do not wish to even imagine, if I get through this, I cannot help feeling that it doesn't matter. . .not for the moment.

"Try and sleep now, Frodo. It's all right. I shall not be going anywhere. . .sleep if you can. You must rest."

Nestled comfortably in his arms, I nod. . .and feel myself dozing off, too tired to stay awake any longer.

**********************************************************************

Despite the many years I have known Gandalf, I cannot help staring. There he sits, the tiny Ringbearer cradled in his arms, patting his back as if this were the most natural thing in the world. Frodo is already falling into a semi-peaceful slumber, and a touch of my hand against his forehead confirms that his fever has come down a little: not much, but enough that we need not panic, not with him resting quietly and semi-coherent. Sitting on my knees beside them, I nod to Legolas that we will be all right on our own, waiting until he goes to relieve Boromir on watch before I speak.

"After Weathertop. . .it was you he asked for. More than a few times."

A sad smile turns up the corners of the wizard's mouth. "He knows me, Aragorn. He has known me since he was an infant, with his mother bouncing him on her knee while Bilbo told tales of his travels. I have known the boy nearly his entire life."

"He draws strength from you."

Gandalf shakes his head. "The strength is there. I think I merely remind him where to look, though he does not realise that yet. And I will not press him: he carries enough burden without the feeling that he must learn to manage alone. Especially now." He continues rubbing Frodo's shoulders, so small that Gandalf's hand (like my own) easily covers nearly the full width of the small back.

I sigh, studying the Ringbearer and debating herbs. . .courses of treatment. . . . "There is so little I can do for him, Gandalf. We cannot let his fever go that high again. And he must take some nourishment. I have spoken with Sam; we can prepare some soups from dried vegetables if we can continue risking the fire. But coaxing it into him is another matter."

"It can be done. We have no choice."

Frodo stirs, moaning. At once Gandalf begins rocking him gently, shushing. . .beginning to sing softly, a song I have not heard in many years. . .once, some years ago, when in Rivendell for a few days. Bilbo had been sitting in the garden where I was walking, arranging notes for his beloved book, and as he worked, he sang. On the wizard's lips it sounds. . .odd, a grandfather singing a child's tune to amuse a beloved grandson. . . .

"The Man in the Moon had silver shoon,  
and his beard was of silver thread;  
With opals crowned and pearls all bound  
about his girdlestead,

In his mantle grey he walked one day  
across a shining floor,  
And with crystal key in secrecy  
he opened an ivory door. . . ."

And the Ringbearer calms once more, settling back into Gandalf's arms quietly as the wizard continues to sing.

"Filigree stair. . ." he murmurs faintly, evoking a smile from Gandalf, who is just beginning to sing the line with those words.

In the starlight of the last fading hour of darkness, the moonlight glimmers outside our shelter, enough of the light reaching us to catch the sparkle of a fine chain at Frodo's neck.

Feeling sick, I can do nothing but watch. . .and listen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is, of course, the opening of JRR Tolkien's own "The Man in the Moon Came Down Too Soon," as published in _The Tolkien Reader_. I've used this in "Shadows in the Darkness" as well, taking it as a probable favourite of both Frodo and Bilbo.


	8. The Cow Jumped Over The Moon

It is easier to rest curled in Gandalf's arms. Kind as Aragorn is, Gandalf is. . .I don't know, exactly. He reminds me of Bilbo and of Bag End and of happier days, before I even knew of the Ring and was only a child dreaming of adventures, all with happy endings.

I do not think this one will have a very happy ending at all.

Listening to Gandalf's familiar voice, the vibration of the deep baritone sound in his chest lulling me, I find myself falling asleep at last.

Bree.

I find myself in the inn at Bree.

Surely there's something I've forgotten in between. . .this can't be right.

But it *is* right. . .I can practically smell the worn leather and frothy beer, the kitchen-smells of thick stew and freshly baked bread, the ashy smokiness of the roaring fire in the huge hearth. . . .

But where are the others?

Turning, I see Strider behind me, and cannot help but smile.

Yet I cannot see his face beneath his hooded cloak.

He comes a few steps closer, and suddenly I notice something.

His cloak is not the usual green, but black.

Black as midnight.

My breath catches as the odor of the tomb. . .the smell I remember from the Barrow, and from Weathertop. . .overwhelms all else. I try at once to turn and run, but his hand, skeletal fingers extending from a ghostly arm beneath the cloak, has me, holding me fast, despite my attempts to pull away. . . .

********************************************************************

"Hold him still!"

Gandalf secures his arms more tightly over the Ringbearer's as I try wringing out the cloth, glancing up to ensure our makeshift curtain is still in place against any winds before running it quickly over Frodo's damp face. The little one struggles, crying out, and my heart twists into a knot at our having to restrain him. Yet his sleep has grown restless beyond help, and the fever has increased dramatically once more.

"He cannot live through this, Aragorn."

It is Boromir's voice behind me, causing me to look up for a moment while continuing to stroke Frodo's face, intermittently wringing the cloth out freshly in the panful of melted snow. "What do you propose we do, then?"

The tone sounds sharper than I meant. Too late I realise this, as he winces, sighing. "Is there nothing more we could do? In Gondor, I have seen the healers use cold baths to bring about the healing crisis."

"I have seen it as well. But I dare not risk exposing him to the cold with the difficulty we would have in rewarming him if needed."

Boromir sighs, nodding. "The chill here is enough to freeze one's blood as it is. . . ."

Wringing out the cloth yet again, I look around for the others. Gimli stands on watch, his beard glinting reddish hints in the light of late morning. Sam, with assistance from Merry and Pippin, is working on lunch, the only thing that would keep him from Frodo's side, and only then because I insisted he would be of most help to his master thus: it is true, given that the hobbits have rather more experience with actual cooking than the rest of us, who tend to throw a loaf of bread and some dried meats and fruit in a sack and make no further ado. . .and Frodo needs something easy to get down, something more to hobbit tastes and easier to eat. Legolas sits by Gandalf, his hand resting gently upon the Ringbearer's curly hair, murmuring softly to the little one in Sindarin.

Elrond, what would you do? Surely after the Last Alliance you must have treated. . .terrible conditions, in terrible places with little help.

But Elrond is not here, of course.

For a moment I cannot help thinking that perhaps it would have been wiser to insist, to have had Pippin and Merry sent home and one or two of the healers of Elrond's house sent with us. We knew Frodo was still not perfectly well, and never will be again, even if he survives this.

"Strider?"

Merry's voice breaks my reverie. Looking up from my patient, I find the young Brandybuck standing patiently beside me, holding a wooden mug filled with steaming liquid, stirring it carefully with practised movement.

"Yes, Merry?"

"I've brought Frodo's lunch; do you want me to try and feed him?"

I look at Frodo, who has settled down only a little - due largely to the efforts of Legolas and Gandalf, I believe.

"Thank you. Certainly. . .let Legolas help with getting him to swallow; it may take a bit more work this time."

"Oh, of course. Sam would insist, but he's trying to get things finished up with the pans and all, and that's not something one wants to leave Pip alone with, really. . . ." Nodding practically, Merry sits unceremoniously beside me as I scoot away a little, allowing him access to his cousin. At once he adopts the more relaxed, easy tone I hear them using between themselves. "Hullo there, Frodo. . .it's just me, Merry. . .with some of Sam's nice soup. . .mushroom, you know, nice and hot, with a bit of barley in it. . .I hope you'll at least try a little; he did make it over an open campfire, and you need to eat. . . ." Tipping the spoon gently to Frodo's lips, he waits.

Frodo calms a bit. . .and his lips part, admitting the spoonful of liquid. After a second, he swallows.

"Good! There's a good fellow - " Merry fairly beams, stirring the soup again before offering another mouthful. "You know, I was worrying about you there. . .the day Frodo Baggins passes up something mushroom is the day the world's coming to ruin, you know. Don't think I didn't know what my older cousins were up, because it's true what they say about little pitchers and big ears!"

"Yes, it most. . .*certainly*. . .is. . . ."

Blinking, I look up from adding snow to the pan.

Frodo's eyes are open.

Barely, but open, definitely. Looking up at Merry, he manages the slightest hint of a smile, taking the next spoonful before speaking again, his voice faint and very hoarse.

"I know. . .you. . .threatened to. . .tell on me. . . ."

Merry laughs, the sound warm and mirthful. "Well, you'd been warned, and yet there you were, still doing it, and you were going without me! I'd not have had to say that if you'd taken me along. . . ."

The conversation is enough to make us all smile, even Boromir and myself.

Glancing back at Merry, I change my mind. We brought the best healers for Frodo that we could have found in all Middle-earth.


	9. Whimsy

In the past two days I have learned more about the Ringbearer than I did in the two months we spent in Rivendell. Not since the journey from Weathertop, when he was often in too much pain to sleep and conceded to talk to me of his past, have I heard nearly so many of the small details of his life, and while I am not unfamiliar with hobbits, these tiny facts make the present situation all the more painful, for they force me to see him as so much more than simply "the Ringbearer". . .and to realise what he means to the other little ones.

Gandalf remembers well meeting a laughing, bright little slip of a thing, a pretty little ladyhobbit by the name of Primula, visiting Bilbo with her infant son, a bright-eyed child contentedly eating applesauce as his mother spoon-fed him. Primula Baggins, still Brandybuck to the core.

Merry speaks of days when the Ringbearer was better known as "absolutely impossible!" by his aunts, uncles, and cousins at Brandy Hall, who hardly knew what to do with the lively orphan. I have at times seen children among my own people who have become fairly wild after losing their parents at a young age, unless given a great deal of affection and attention by a surrogate parent, and something in the tenor of those tales reminds me very much of such children. Bilbo himself has commented before that Frodo was quite the young terror once, but a sweet and perfectly mannered young hobbit for him, which only confirms my suspicions. Still, Merry speaks with such affection that I cannot believe anyone holds Frodo in contempt: the tales apparently are more a source of laughter than aught else these days.

Sam, tearful, murmurs about the shy tweenager who came to live with "Mr. Bilbo" when he himself was just a small lad, learning his letters. . .a pale, quiet boy who spent a great deal of time reading and talking with Bilbo, a lad who never seemed to fatten up sufficiently for hobbit standards, though he clearly adored Bilbo's cooking and was fairly competent on his own. Sometimes he would appear in the kitchen in the middle of the night, broiling bread to make cinnamon-sugar toast to have with milk while reading a book.

He once nursed Pippin through a bad cold only to catch it himself, and was tended by Sam, who apparently is almost never unwell, unlike those two with the strong Fallohide bloodlines Gandalf spoke of. Evidently he makes a delicious apple cobbler, the recipe for which he attributes to Primula.

One year for Bilbo's birthday celebration with his own, after Bilbo's departure, he had a cake made in the shape of a dragon. Another year he had a "trolls' feast," featuring mutton and lamb as main dishes.

During the autumn, he often makes a favourite supper - roast chicken, mashed sweet potatoes, hot apple salad, baked mushrooms, freshly baked rolls with butter, cheese and bread and pears and apples, gingerbread - and packs it into a picnic-basket with a bottle of wine and a container of hot tea, then walks to one of Bilbo's favourite wooded spots to eat, usually with a few friends.

His favourite colours are blue and green, though he wears a fair amount of purple and yellow. . .but he doesn't think he looks "quite right" in anything without a blue base. Not quite as fussy with clothes as Bilbo, he is less attentive to his buttons, and frequently prefers silver over gold.

Yule has always been his favourite holiday, though as a tweenager he was very ill during that season on at least two occasions, one of which kept him confined to bed through the holiday itself. One year he was helping with the goose and put too much sage in the stuffing, which Bilbo managed to rescue by increasing the recipe. They ate stuffing for days on end, and that was with sending some to the Gamgees' large family as well.

Somehow knowing all of this unsettles me: I wish that I could return him to his comfortable home, to take back the past six months which have been so difficult for him.

And yet I cannot.

Why did I not volunteer during the Council? I have asked myself this more times than not. . .and yet the answer comes into my head the same each time.

*It is not your place, Aragorn. This calling is not for you. Undertake it yourself and you would doom the Quest. Yours is not to carry this burden, but to aid the one whose call it is.*

All the same, I feel deep pity for the little hobbit who sleeps cradled in my arms, resting fitfully between bouts of coughing.

Pity and admiration.


	10. Understood By The Heart

So. . .thirsty. . . .

"How is he?"

That voice. . .Legolas. . . .

His hand touches my forehead, and I half consider putting out my hand to reach for his: Bilbo spoke of the elves and their magic, and I am always astonished by the number of ways, small and large, this proves true. . .his touch is comfortable, soothing and refreshing even though I still feel miserably ill. But I dare not show that. . .I must be strong. . .the Ringbearer should not reach for an elf's hand like some frightened child. . . .

But I *am* frightened.

"The fever is worsening. We must decide what to do, and quickly." Strider's voice. . .from the vibration I feel as he speaks, I guess that he is the one holding me.

Almost as if he could guess my thoughts, Legolas slides his hands into the blankets. . .even before he speaks again, I feel slender fingers close around my hands reassuringly. It feels wonderful. Nice and cool. . .and strong. . .Legolas would not let anything bad happen, nor would Strider. . .nor Gandalf. . . .

"The snow pack is risky, Aragorn." Gandalf's voice. He is still close, then. . . .

"And so is the fever, if this persists." Someone puts something to my lips, pressing me to drink, and I manage a few swallows: it hurts, though I am still so thirsty. . .I wish swallowing were less painful. . . .

"Let me take him?" From the movement of the hands I know it is Legolas even before he speaks. "You and Gandalf can discuss it with the others. It is no matter to debate here, with the little one trying to rest. Ask the others: Sam or Merry may know how he has been treated for such conditions in the past, and that information may aid us now. I will do what I can. . .he will be safe until you have decided."

"Legolas is right. Give Frodo to him; we must speak with the others." Gandalf's voice. . .I want to open my eyes, but the thought of such effort is too daunting.

There is a moment's hesitation, but then I feel myself being moved, being eased into elven arms which cradle me as expertly as they might his bow and arrows. The gentle sense of cool comfort is refreshing: it is like something cool and yet pleasantly warm at the same time, and I curl up eagerly as he settles me into his lap, shushing softly and whispering to me in Sindarin. I know he addresses me, for I recognise my name, though little else. . .concentration is too difficult just now for me to translate really well, though I can understand snatches. . . .

"Frodo, be strong, and try. . . . . . . . .a little. . . . . . . You will. . . . . . . . . . . . ." *

Understood or not, the sound is somehow reassuring. . .and I nestle into an easier position, my chest aching horribly, allowing the voice to soothe me back to sleep. I am so tired. . .so very tired. . . . Don't want snow. . .anything. . .want to sleep. . . .


	11. Cruel Choices

"Aragorn, what's the matter? Is Frodo worse?"

"What's going on? Is Frodo. . . ."

I remain silent as Pippin and Merry, wide-eyed with anxiety, clamour for explanations. Even Boromir and Gimli look distressed as I gesture the company aside, gathering all save Legolas, who sits some distance away, cradling Frodo protectively in his arms. When at last all are present and attentive, which takes little time indeed, I look around, grateful for Gandalf at my side. I would not wish to deliver such news to the youngest ones without him.

"His fever is growing worse. We must try to bring it down. . .otherwise, he may not survive. But there is no safe way to attempt it beyond what we have already tried, and clearly that is no longer working."

Pippin's eyes widen, and he gulps, while Merry presses a calming hand against the younger one's shoulder, despite the betrayal of fear and dark memory I see in his own brown eyes. Sam looks positively on the verge of tears. Giving them a few minutes to take in this news, I wait until Gandalf's hand rests on Sam's shoulders before continuing.

"The decision, however, is one that I think must be made by the whole company. . .and the three of you know him better than any of us do. As I understand things, he has had this sickness before. Can you recall anything of how he was treated successfully? Of the duration, whether we might be able to wait this out at all? I know conditions here are very different from the Shire, but perhaps there is something we might be able to draw from that. . . ." My understatement is almost enough to bring a dark laugh to the surface. Very different? It might as well be night to day. . . .

All are silent for a few minutes. Sam rubs furiously at his eyes with his sleeve, while Pippin presses Merry's hand, looking pleadingly at his older cousin. And it is, in fact, Merry who finally breaks the stillness.

"He had it at least twice that I know of, though I wasn't around generally. But we were talking about being ill once, and I remember him saying that when he'd had pneumonia they'd given him a lot of medicines and kept him in bed. . .not that he felt like getting up. . .and he mentioned being woken up by being given baths. . . ."

"Beg pardon, sir - " Sam cleared his throat shyly. "That's right; I remember when we were both younger. . .poor Mr. Frodo was just a tweenager then. . .he got awful sick one winter, and Mr. Bilbo had to bathe him with cool water to keep the fever down. And there was a time he was ill after Mr. Bilbo left. . .not this, I don't think, but he *was * awful sick still. . .he finally let me get a doctor for him, and the doctor said to give him some kind of medicine he left and plenty of tea, just plain peppermint or chamomile or ginger, plus a cup of meadowsweet tea three times a day, and to keep him sponged down, water about the temperature you'd use for a baby's bath, maybe a touch cooler, when he felt too poorly or when the fever seemed to be getting too high. And that worked well enough. Took a lot of attention, it did; he was awful sick for near to a week then. But I don't know any more than that, Strider, sir. . . ."

I look at Gandalf, who sighs and shakes his head.

"Tell us our choices, Aragorn. We must all know exactly what decision faces us."

Settling back on my heels, I look up at the others, remaining in a crouch to avoid towering over the hobbits.

"We can do nothing save what we already are, which means that Frodo will most likely die within hours to days. We can try mild cooling measures, such as keeping him only lightly dressed, without blankets, which might reduce the fever, but which I fear would chill him, and which definitely would be uncomfortable for him at best. We could go a bit more extreme and melt snow just enough to use the liquid to bathe him, which again risks chilling. With the difficulty in rewarming him that we would have, I hesitate. Or. . .we could go the extreme route and use packing: undress him, pack him in snow and keep him there until his fever comes down, then pat him dry and keep him covered, out of the drafts as best we can. We would need to try and improve the tent we currently have set up, but it could be done."

"Won't that freeze him to death?" asks Pippin incredulously.

"The packing won't. But he could become too chilled, especially if there is any draft into the tent. Our best choice would be to find a small cave if we can, creating a makeshift tent in there. . .we could shield him from drafts on both sides and build a small fire to warm the air. If we are fortunate, his temperature will not rise so far again. If not. . .we will have to repeat the process."

A long silence passes. At last Sam sighs, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Strider. . .what do you think has the best chance of savin' him?"

My eyes meet his. There is no challenge now, as I saw at first after Weathertop. . .only anxious curiousity.

"The snow packing. We risk Frodo's death no matter what we do. This gives him the greatest chance at recovery."

"Then that's what we do. Only I'm going to help; you ain't doing no such thing to Mr. Frodo without me there to help out, make sure he's got a good warm place to rest after you've froze him like that."

I reach to touch Sam's shoulder gently, in reassurance and gratitude, but Boromir's voice strikes quietly through the cold air.

"We have to face facts. He will not likely survive this, whatever we do. Perhaps we should consider how to make it least painful for him. . .but if this is what you feel best, name what I must do, and it shall be done."

Something in me is uneasy at his words. . .but his eyes are anxious, and for all my misgivings, I do not believe he would attempt to harm Frodo with one of us present. Alone. . .I would not feel entirely at ease. The Ring's call upon him is too strong already. Even I hesitate at handling it; in treating Frodo I work around that chain rather than move it even a little upon his neck. The fierce glares from the hobbits appear ready to lead to words, but I quickly rise, meeting Boromir's gaze.

"If you and Gimli could find a small cave such as I mentioned, that would be the most useful measure to take. Secure what we can spare in blankets and materials to shelter an area where we can keep Frodo out of the breezes. Whatever course of action we take, that much will help him."

Merry and Pippin look at Sam, then Gandalf, then one another, talking quietly between themselves for a moment before turning to look up at me.

"Strider, we think you should try it. Whatever you think gives Frodo the best chance at surviving." This from Merry, his expression serious and sad.

"Frodo would want that." A surprisingly serious Pippin chimes in, nodding in agreement. "He'd be brave; he wouldn't want you to not try. . . ."

Gandalf nods silently, while Gimli sighs, shaking his head.

"A shame. Poor fellow. If it must be, it must, though. Do what you believe best, Aragorn. . .snow and all."

For a moment I wait, allowing time should anyone change his mind.

Silence.

"Then it is decided."

With that, I turn, motioning for Sam and Gandalf to accompany me as I return to the makeshift shelter where Legolas cradles Frodo, rocking the little hobbit in his arms.


	12. Voices In The Darkness

So sleepy. . .and everything aches. . . .

Someone approaches. . .smell of worn leather and powdered herbs, of earth and stone. . .Aragorn. His fingers brush my face, pushing back my bangs, touching my forehead like moving icicles. I try to pull away, to nestle my head back into the elf's shoulder, but strong arms gather me up, Legolas yielding me with no protest that I can detect. Why? I'm comfortable. . .leave me alone, please. . .I want to rest. . . .

"It's all right, Frodo. . .easy now. . . ."

As ever, his touch seems to ease the pain, the miserable feeling of sickness that seems to have taken over my body. Yet he begins to unwrap me, removing the blankets and even my warm cloak and soft clothes. . .I don't understand. . . .

"Strider – "

"Sssshh, ssssh, Frodo – we have to bring down the fever. You're very ill. . .I wish there were some other way, but there is none."

Sighing, I try to remain patient, but everything swirls. A mist. . .a haze of faces and voices. . . .

"I will take the Ring, though I do not know the way." My own voice, strange and foreign in my ears.

"The enemy is upon us! Noro lim, Noro lim, Asfaloth!" Glorfindel's clear pealing tones, urging his horse on as they closed in behind me. . . .

The piercing cry of the Nazgul, heralding their presence from somewhere in the wilderness. . .too close to our camp. Strider bending over me protectively, the others clustering close. . . . The fragrant scent of athelas. . . . Some sort of bitter herbal drink, warm in a cup, Strider pressing me to sip, to drink slowly. . . .

"It would be easier this way, you know. Far better."

What? I struggle, though firm hands hold me down. Opening my eyes seems too great an effort. The voice is at once hauntingly familiar. . .and yet strange to me. . . .

Better than what? I wonder.

"Better than the alternative. Why not? One of them will continue on. . .and you can rest. . . ."

True. . .I could think of nothing better. . . . So tired. . . .

"Just let go. . .there is no need to hold so fast. . . ."

No. . .

Then again, perhaps. . .

Yes. . .after all.

"Just let go. If you do not cling so tightly, after all, 'twill be easier to let it all go. . . ."

Yes. . .yes, it will.

Much easier.


	13. Hope Unexpected

"There now. . .careful. . .good."

With Sam easing Frodo carefully out of his clothing, Merry carefully holding the wraps I have already removed, I study the Ringbearer's small features: flushed bright pink with high fever, tense with delirious murmurings despite my attempts to reassure him, still holding him close. The Ring sparkles upon its chain about his neck, a perfect circlet of gold. . . .

Forcing my eyes away, I wait for Sam to complete his task before laying Frodo down carefully. "All right, Pippin. . .Legolas. . . ."

Silently the two begin assisting me with the packing, even Pippin's countenance sombre and anxious. Indeed, the air is heavy with the silence: no one speaks, though everyone looks on anxiously, Sam and Merry holding Frodo's things ready. . .Gandalf, staff in his lap, head bowed. . .Boromir, his expression one of worry. . .Gimli, shaking his head sadly. . . .

Despite his lack of initial reaction, Frodo suddenly cries out, startling us all. Pippin jumps, though Legolas sets to soothing the still-delirious hobbit, laying a calming hand upon his brow.

"Ssshhh. . .it's all right, Frodo. Be still. Aragorn is trying to help you. . .we are trying to help you get better. I know 'tis difficult to bear, little one. . . ."

Much to my relief, Frodo gradually quiets, leaving me to finish packing him carefully as I try to estimate. It seems folly to attempt this, but I fear the risk of chilling him is less than it would be to leave damp compresses on his body or to use similar means. . .and there is nothing for it; if the temperature does not come down, he will not survive. I have seen it on occasion before. . . . There is still a risk: this small cave is hardly a warm place, but it seems the best we have: I can see the back, where there are no further passages, so we are protected, and Gimli and Boromir have shielded the entrance with what curtain we could prepare of blankets and cloak-fastenings. Even at that, they stand close, further blocking any possible draft with their sturdy frames. Carefully I shift beside Legolas, keeping my back to them to provide additional protection for the small Ringbearer.

The only sounds are Frodo's soft whimpering, the soothing voice of Legolas, and the wind whipping outside the cave.

It seems an interminable wait, but at last I sense Frodo's forehead growing cooler beneath my touch. His whimpering seems to have quieted for now: he lies still, though not eerily so, resting calmly. Nodding to Merry and Sam, I finally lift him back into my arms, brushing away the snow to quickly wrap him in dry blankets, swaddling him close.

"Strider?"

I look down to find his blue eyes open: clear now, though somewhat confused.

"Yes, Frodo? I'm here."

"I. . .I don't understand. . . ." Before I can reply, he continues. "But I'm thirsty. . .please, could I have. . .something to drink?"

"Of course." With some relief I smile, nodding to Sam, who is already filling a cup with tea, sweetening the herbal mixture with honey.

Perhaps there might be hope after all. Even in the most unexpected of places.


	14. Comforts and Conundrums

Comfortable.

Well, not quite what I'd really call comfortable, not truthfully. Comfortable would be a feather-bed and pillows, piled high with patchwork quilts and soft blankets and clean sheets, set in a warm room, perhaps the smell of something pleasant like gingerbread in the air. It feels somehow cold and hot at the same time, and the air smells too much of ice for me to even imagine that I might be somewhere else. . .that. . .that mountain we'd seen. . . .

Someone bringing a cup to my lips. . .the drink I'd requested, warm and sweet in a polished wooden mug from Rivendell. I drink as deeply as my caregiver allows: the taste of honey seems laced with apple flavour, improving the herb mixture I recognise too well by now. At last the hand takes away the mug, arms cradling me a bit more tightly. It feels. . .rather comfortable, as comfort could be out here, so to speak. . . .

Slowly I manage to force my eyes open. Aragorn is holding me, bent over me with a grave expression, as if watching me closely. Near at hand sits Legolas, his gaze likewise focused intently on mine, and I can feel his hands holding my feet lightly inside the blankets.

"How are you feeling, Frodo?"

Gandalf! His face comes into view, and I cannot help feeling somewhat reassured as he ruffles my hair gingerly.

"Everything hurts. . .I. . .I'm not sure. . . ."

"It's quite all right. Try to just rest." He puts out his arms, asking Aragorn with a nod and a glance. . .and within moments I find myself resting comfortably against the wizard, the familiar scent of travel-dust and pipeweed soothing. He shakes one of his sleeves, adjusting his robes a little, with the effect of creating almost a tent on on side, shielding me on three of four sides. Aragorn and Legolas remain close, Aragorn bending to feel my forehead.

"Whatever way we go, Gandalf, we ought to try and reach Lothlorien. They would help us replenish supplies. . .and it would be a safe place to rest for even a short time. Frodo could regain more of his strength there."

"Yes. I think that would be best." He looks down at me, smiling kindly. "That is where Elrond's wife came from, Frodo. . .the Lady Celebrian, Arwen's mother, is the only daughter of Celeborn and Galadriel, and it is there that Arwen has passed a great deal of her life. They are very wise, and though the elves of Lorien are different from those of Rivendell or Mirkwood, I think you will be glad when we reach them. . . . They will, I think, aid our errand without hesitation."

It is reassuring to listen, to hear them discuss the possibility of a future beyond this frozen wasteland. And reassuring to no longer be the one to whom all burden of decision falls. . .I was not made for such quests; even in Rivendell, they recognised that: while I was shown maps and great books, I was often left to my own devices, encouraged to spend time with Bilbo instead. . . .

"Wh. . .where are the others?"

Aragorn touches my forehead gently. "They are close by, Frodo. They are worried about you, but are resting, at my instruction. We must keep you calm. . .try to sleep again, if you can."

Closing my eyes, I try to obey, nestling securely in Gandalf's arms. Yet the surroundings are slow to fade, resulting in an altogether unpleasant mingling of reality and dream, and I cannot be certain which is which. . . .

". . .Lothlorien. . . . . .the Lady. . . ."

"It. . . . . .best. . . . . ."

". . . . . .he's. . .warm. . . . . . We. . . . . .certain. . . . ."

". . . . . .preciousssssssssssssssss. . . ."


	15. Dark Decisions

"And so. Our course is laid: to press forward, or to retreat."

I cannot help but frown at Gandalf's words. "Either way is to press forward, Gandalf. You know that. We cannot return to Rivendell, and there wait until the end. I cannot deny that further attempts to cross Caradhras will endanger the Ringbearer. But Moria is damp and chill, and that is not considerably better."

"Still, we must decide between the two evils."

Nodding, I glance back toward the fire. Boromir is, fortunately, occupied in amusing Merry and Pippin with tales of his journey from Gondor to Elrond's house. Sam snores contentedly, at rest only due to a sleeping draught I added to his supper - a trick, yes, but in exhaustion he would be unable to help his master, and exhaustion he was nearing from refusal to rest. Gimli stands just outside, perched on watch, while Legolas remains at his own post, cradling Frodo in his arms, close to the fire. Soft and sweet is the melody I can just make out, recognising it as a song of Thranduil's elves. . .some trace of his home, shared with another wanderer. It seems to calm the little one, though, who sleeps through the crisis, the fever giving way to exhaustion. Yet that we can manage: I will carry him, and with continued care he will survive. We can tarry no longer, and for this reason Gandalf and I sit alone, discussing our course in whispers.

"The frying-pan or the fire." A slight chuckle escapes me at the thought. "That's how Bilbo would put it, you know."

"Yes."

We both fall silent, the wind whistling grimly outside, a menacing sound to chill the blood. One thing and one only have we agreed upon in this: we must try to reach Lothlorien, if we can. There we could be safe for a short time, enough for Frodo to have rest, warmth, and proper nourishment. I am certain that the healers of Lorien could be convinced to see if there is anything that can be done to help strengthen him as well. But I am anxious to avoid the path of Moria if we can: I have an ill feeling about it. There is a darkness that overshadows my spirit at the thought.

And there is something else.

Frodo started at something in his sleep, murmured in fright about Gollum. . .and I would think it delirium had I, too, not heard a hiss in the darkness.

It unsettles me greatly. We have found nothing, seen nothing on our watches, and Boromir and I canvassed everything of the surrounding rocks that we could. Gimli and Legolas then did the same.

Nothing.

And yet I cannot help feeling that he is there. . .waiting in the shadows.

"Aragorn?"

Looking up at Gandalf, I find myself struck by a horrible sense of. . .of emptiness. An image of flame in darkness, though I cannot make out the source.

"We must attempt to cross Caradhras. We have come this far. . .it is no use turning back if we can finish the crossing. And the air may benefit Frodo more than the foul, closed airs of Moria."

He nods. . .but from the darkness in his eyes, I know the truth. This is not the last discussion we shall have of the matter.

And somehow my heart is at once gladdened and dimmed by that thought.


	16. Premonitions

My mother used to say that certain people were more prone to them than others, and that I was one of those people. But even in my dreams and fancies, never have I had such unsettling sensations of things to come as I have now. Something chills me through, and I feel so alone, even when surrounded by company.

Merry tries to reassure me that it is nothing. . .a lingering effect of the fever. But I can see the fear in his eyes: we are both of Brandybuck blood, and none of that proud lineage of Buckland would doubt such things, not truly. We dare not speak of it to Pippin or Sam: it would unsettle them. Best to keep it to ourselves, though Aragorn and Legolas know, and of course Gandalf.

They believe me. Legolas especially. . .he has a way of noticing things, almost like another sense for him, keener even than sound or sight. Gandalf because he has known me so long, I think. Aragorn. . .I don't know. He just. . .understands. And he thinks it no trick of my illness that I believe we are being followed, though he assures me that the area has been searched as closely as can be by our company. The knowledge is a little comfort, though not enough to put me at true ease.

We are packing. There is no more time to delay: my sickness has cost us dearly, and I feel worse for being unable to help now. Yet Aragorn insists I must have complete rest. . .so I am left in someone's arms while the others take apart the campsite and conceal evidence of our tracks as best as they can. For a time this morning, it was Boromir, who was charged with helping Merry press the matter of breakfast with me; later, Legolas took his place, sturdy arms giving way to soft music. Gandalf came to take me at lunch, settling me against the folds of his robe and telling me stories as he did when I was a tweenager getting over influenza. Aragorn, directing operations, came back and forth throughout, seeing to medicines and checking my temperature, breathing, and pulse.

If it were not for Gandalf, I do not think I could bear it. I am so tired. We must move on now, and there is nothing for it. Aragorn says that we may be able to reach a place where I can recover some strength in safety. . .an elvenhome, where Arwen grew up. The thought is cheering, though in truth I sometimes feel the company of strangers does me less good than I would have from my own bed and the company of other hobbits.

But one is possible. The other is not.

Admittedly, anything with some measure of safety sounds appealing just now.

The others are finished, and we must depart shortly. Aragorn bends over me, pressing me to sip something from a flask. I recognise the bitter taste. . .it is a sedative, some herbal mixture to help me remain still while one of them carries me, to shield me as much as possible from the pain of being moved. . .though better, I still ache, my shoulder especially. It is quick, though, and I find myself feeling the effects almost at once.

It is Gandalf who carries me now, pressing Aragorn to lead, giving me a bit more time in his comfortable arms, where his flowing robes seem to help keep away the cold winds. Suddenly a flash of panic quickens my breathing, and he rubs my back, trying to reassure me. . .but there is nothing for it, for he does not understand.

For half a moment - no more, but just long enough - too long, for my feeling - I felt something dark, overpowering, like the stench of sulphur and the heat of flames - and the absence of Gandalf's steadying presence. Tightening my hold, I bury my head against his shoulder, allowing him to continue rubbing lightly.

Only a trick of the medicine, perhaps. The medicine, combined with lingering effects of the fever.

But that thought does little to still the tension in my stomach. . .already feeling myself drowsing off, I recall the recognition of that feeling.

The smell of lake-water, and a hair-ribbon floating where none should be, a pipe floating close by.

~The End~


End file.
